


wound that makes you scream

by wajjs



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fake Character Death, Gen, Muteness, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24013411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: They have the proof, though. The empty, destroyed coffin. The DNA samples. They have everything to know, to be sure, that he was as real as he could be and now he’s all gone and it’s all…It’s Bruce’s fault.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd
Comments: 19
Kudos: 223





	wound that makes you scream

**Author's Note:**

> Epistemologicals on tumblr sent me this prompt: “Who wouldn’t be angry you ate all of my cereal and faked your death for three years!”, asking for either jaydick or anything gen with Dick Grayson. I went for Jay and Dick gen :-D
> 
> [(tumblr post with the prompt)](https://wajjs.tumblr.com/post/617238371458318336/hey-blob-so-i-noticed-that-the-first-prompt-on)
> 
> The story takes place 3 years after the events of Under The Red Hood.

**wound that makes you scream**

Tomorrow’s the anniversary, that is all Dick can think of as he goes through the rest of the day - as he finishes his coffee, while he starts getting ready, when he’s running and leaping from rooftop to rooftop. Tomorrow’s the anniversary of both Batman and Bruce’s greatest mistake, the one that was the final thing to send him down spiralling, to have the man crash down. And down. And down. Not even rock bottom had been enough.

Because three years ago Bruce, not enough Batman, had been demanded to make a choice, put right in between the sword and the wall, and he had acted. He had acted, only for everything to crash right over his head. The wound, the blood, the explosion. The laughter, the silence, the absence. The trail of crimson, the hint, the void. Nothing left behind.

Like the miracle that had turned into a nightmare to then promptly go up in smoke and mirages. Like _he_ had never been there, _he_ had never come back, like- like-

They have the proof, though. The empty, destroyed coffin. The DNA samples. They have everything to know, to be sure, that _he_ was as real as he could be and now he’s all gone and it’s all…

It’s Bruce’s fault.

He sighs, stopping next to a ledge and looking out over the buildings around him. For once, the night holds no threat of rain and the wind carries no ungodly stench. Even the activity is surprisingly low, calm, something he’d comment on if he didn’t fear the real threat of jinxing it. He still allows himself one moment, just one moment, and sits right on the border of the ledge, lets his legs hang over it, feet facing the deadly drop.

Bruce has yet to recover. He’s yet to be anywhere near a semblance of what he once was. Not even Tim, god, poor young and hopeful Tim, not even his passion and stubbornness were enough to make the old man move on. Dick doubts anything will ever be enough. Dick doubts he himself will ever be able to make himself _understand_ why Bruce did that, _why_ did he-

His comm comes to life just then, making him sit up just a tad bit straighter, bracing himself for movement once more.

_“You should head home,_ ” Tim speaks clearly, no rush to his words, _“everything’s quiet. A and I will keep an eye on B tonight.”_

It’s what they always do when that date rears its ugly head upon them. He still nods, swallows past the sudden knot in his throat.

“Alright,” he says, stands up and stretches his arms over his head, “I’ll keep my comm on just in case. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

_“I will,”_ Tim promises even though they both know it’s unlikely any call will be made. With that, the communication ends.

No one is a fan of words in the eve of Jason Todd’s second death.

With his thoughts all scrambled, filled with memories, regrets and crushed dreams, Dick slides into his apartment from the window. There is no need to turn on the lights as he reactivates all the locks and security measures, and no need to stop himself from sagging under his own weight as he peels off his mask, starts working on the top of his costume. His instincts only come back online when he’s two steps into the living room, fluorescent glow coming from the kitchen’s open door. 

Dick doesn’t stop to think. He picks up his escrima sticks, activates them, and with silent steps walks towards the entrance. He sure as hell hopes upon hope it’s one of his old Titans teammates, or a friend, because he does not want to fight right now, he is in no mood, his heart is gone, six feet under, right where the tomb of his lost- of, of _Jaybird_ is.

And maybe it’s because he’s so deep in longing and grief that his eyes trick him in such a painful way. Because he slides into the kitchen to be face to face with a young man sitting on the counter, bowl of cereal in his hands, spoon halfway to his mouth. Because the young man has the same features of the one he’s missing, the same eyes, the same lips, the same eyebrows. Everything is a carbon copy of _him_ and Dick discovers right then and there that he can’t handle any more heartbreak. He can’t take any more of it. He’s had enough.

“Who are you?,” he makes himself ask, feels his chest seizing, throat constricting, and it’s a herculean task to keep himself pulled together. “How did you get in here?”

The man blinks once, twice, begins to frown in confusion as he sets the bowl next to his thigh on the counter, licks away any remaining of milk and cereal from his lips. Dick braces himself for the sound of his voice, fearing that it will sound just like Jason’s, but it never comes. The voice never comes. Instead, the man lets out the smallest of sighs before lifting his hands, signing away with ease that betrays lots of practice.

_You don’t recognize me?_ , the man asks with a barely there hint of a pout, _Thought you’d be thrilled to see me._

“Answer me!,” he demands, giving another step forward and shifting into a fighting stance. This is too much. “Who are you!”

_It’s me, dumbass,_ the other’s hands move fast, almost too fast for Dick to fully finish understanding the signs, _I’m Jason._

“That’s-,” he has to swallow, clearing his throat because that, that is impossible, isn’t it? They all believed him dead. Again. Bruce himself showed them the video recording from the cowl. No one could survive that kind of cut to the throat. No one, no one, but… but… “ _No,_ ” he breathes out, shaking, “no, you _died._ ”

_I didn’t,_ with a small smile, the man, no, Jason? God, Jason, stands up, looking at Dick in the eyes, _I mean, I did, once, but I came back and you were there. Or you forgot?_

He doesn’t- of course he didn’t! But if he’s here, then, then.

_By the way,_ Jason, it’s really him, Dick feels a whole lot like screaming, even more like crying, _you ran out of cereal. I invited myself to some but it was barely enough for a single bowl._

Dropping his escrima sticks to the ground, Dick allows himself the luxury of laughing. Laughing till there are tears in his eyes and the rattling in his chest has gone full bomb, about to explode and curse everyone in the immediate blast radius. His hands close into fists, his whole body is moving and next thing he knows he’s got Jason trapped against the counter, one hand closed tightly around the neck of his red sweater, the other raised, ready to strike.

_Dude,_ Jason snorts, eyes impossibly clear, pinning Dick to his place, _it’s just cereal. Don’t be mad._

“Don’t be mad?!,” he yells out, mildly succumbing to hysterics. “Why wouldn’t I be mad that you ate all of my cereal and faked your death for three years?! Three fucking years, Jason!! Do you know what it did to Bruce? What it did to me?!”

_I’m sorry_ , in the small space between them, Jason barely has room to sign properly between their faces. His expression is sad and haunted, and filled with just too much regret. _I needed time. To heal. And. To accept._

“Accept what!,” he knows he should probably pull away, bring his voice back to decent levels, but he can’t, not when everything feels too surreal, when air escapes him to never return. “Accept _what!_ ”

_That B would hurt me like this,_ Jason says, thumb hovering over the thick, gnarly scar crossing his throat, _That I cannot speak anymore._ _That I needed to learn. Learn how to communicate again._

It’s been three years. Three years since the return and the loss of the prodigal son.

Dick still needs to gather his thoughts, his heart, hell, maybe even his soul. But one thing is clear. On the third year, he’s the one guiding Jason back home. Hand in hand, step by step. And this time, he’ll make sure there won’t be any more harm to come.


End file.
